


Again

by QuidProCrow



Series: Trio of Dances [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cigarettes, Developing Relationship, Diners, M/M, Music, Pre-Relationship, Romance, laundry rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuidProCrow/pseuds/QuidProCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things happen in diners at awkward hours of the night, you know. People come together in strange ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Again

They ate dinner in the cafe on the corner, the one with the dim lights that stayed open all the time and the awkward people and the nosy waitresses who asked what they were doing, eating at three in the morning.

Francis remembered every detail of the event- how Arthur ordered tea, his fingertips fiddling with the handle of the cup the entire time, the way his jade eyes looked everywhere but at the man across from him, the way silent smirks tugged at his lips at Francis’ comments. The way they both tried to come up with the life stories of the other inhabitants of the cafe while pointedly avoiding discussing their own until they were the only ones left in the cafe.

“Where are you from, anyway?” Arthur had asked, fingers still flirting with his teacup, and Francis had smiled.

“France. I came here to visit some friends.”

“Oh, I should’ve _known._ Your accent is so _prominent_. What do you do there, across the pond?”

“I work as an artist,” Francis had replied, and his smile had grown wider as he thought back to his apartment there, all haphazard organization, sketchbooks and paper and pencils making up the hodgepodge of his home. “What do you do, Arthur?”

And Arthur had frowned, eyes drawn down, fingertips falling away from his tea. “Mm,” and that solemn, monosyllabic response started tugging on something inside of Francis. “I- work in an office.”

“You do not sound very….enthusiastic about that,” Francis had managed, and Arthur had scoffed, eyes rolling.

“Who’s _enthusiastic_ about working in an _office?_ It’s bloody boring, it is. Paperwork and headaches.”

Francis had watched him, watched the way his hands curled around his teacup, the way the bitter resentment tugged at his voice, the way the dark circles under his eyes spoke volumes.

 _Oh,_ he had thought, taking his elbows off of the table. _Oh._

Everything had started sort of fitting together- thoughts and lives and eyes staring at each other with the kind of intensity reserved for other things, for special things, not for the people you met at random parties and took to dim-lit cafes with nosy waitresses at awkward hours of the morning.

And Francis had started wondering _why-_ why he’d attended Elizabeta’s party, why he’d been intrigued when she’d said _oh, Arthur’s in the laundry room, weird little thing, and he has this thing for reciting Shakespeare over martini glasses, I think you’d like him, Francis,_ why he’d forgotten about the cigarettes he had in his back pocket the moment he walked into the laundry room, why he’d asked him to dinner, or whatever it was they were having right now, why he was so _fascinated-_

“It’s late,” Arthur had then said, and he snapped Francis away from his thoughts, pulling him away from _why does this man look so gorgeous in a waistcoat?_ “Or early. Or, er, something. I- appreciate this.”

Francis had smiled again, and maybe that was the only response that had been needed.

They’d both rummaged around in their wallets afterward, trying to leave a considerable-but-not-quite-so tip for the waitresses who’d allowed them to stay in the cafe so late, albeit the fact that they were the nosiest women in the world. And they’d left, walking down the sidewalk, brushing against each other every now and then.

And it had just _happened,_ it had, and Francis wasn’t entirely sure _why,_ but in the dark light of three-thirty in the morning, everything just _was._

And later on, they’d both be home, in their respective apartments, and they wouldn’t see each other again, and Francis would go back ‘across the pond’ and Arthur would stay in England. And they’d forget about each other, they would, pretend it never happened, pretend they hadn’t talked, pretend each other didn’t exist.

And when Arthur came to France on business, he wouldn’t try and find Francis, wouldn’t wrestle his address from Elizabeta before he went, wouldn’t show up unexpectedly at Francis’ apartment. And when Francis curled up on his couch with his sketchbook, he wouldn’t go through pages and pencils as he sketched Arthur’s face and tried to get it perfect.

And when Francis came back to England in time for another one of Elizabeta’s parties, he wouldn’t-

But he _would,_ this time.

And they sat in the laundry room again, smoking Arthur’s cigarettes, while the music from the other rooms drifted in through the cracks in the closed door.

_Ah, look at all the lonely people,  
Ah, look at all the lonely people…_

“What I have always wondered,” Francis began, pulling the cigarette out from between his lips, rings of smoke curling into the air, “is that, if no one visits Father McKenzie, why is he still writing sermons?”

“Posterity,” Arthur replied, toying with his own cigarette. “I suppose. You know.”

“….I do not.”

“That’s because you’re too daft to understand, Bonnefoy. Being French and all.”

“Or you just read too much into things, Kirkland. Being British, you know.”

And Arthur was glaring at him through the smoke with a raised eyebrow, and Francis was smiling at him.

“Wipe that grin off your face. You look positively _mental.”_

“Ah, but you like that, do you not?”

Arthur widened his eyes, and Francis momentarily wondered if he’d gone too far. But then Arthur composed himself again, back straightening, fingertips clenching around his cigarette. “Of course not,” he muttered, and Francis found himself grinning again.

“Francis, stop _smiling._ With this bad lighting, you look like-“

“-like an utterly handsome man?”

“A real creeper, actually. Pedophile material.”

Francis slouched, and a grin, not a smirk, but a real grin poked its way onto Arthur’s face, tugging at the corners of his lips, and Francis watched him again- watched the way his face lit up, the way his jade eyes looked right at him this time, the way his awkward eyebrows rose a few inches.

 _Oh_ , he thought again, straightening in a sort of sudden manner. _Oh. So this is it._

And Arthur was smiling again, and the world was fitting together.


End file.
